Internet Search for Self Actualization

Confess.  Have you ever asked the internet a personal question?  In a weak moment, have you ever asked your friend Google, "Who am I?"  "Should I leave him?"  "What am I going to do?" Or, not a question at all:  "Please be quiet!" 

I'll assume by your silence that you are guilty.

While I am not considering leaving my spouse, it is possible I may have asked the internet god a question or two in a moment of desperation that would be more appropriately put to the good Lord himself or at very least a therapist. 

Maybe you refuse to confess, and that's fine.  If you insist that you are far too centered to resort to such silliness, it's no big deal.  I won't feel alone. 

And here's why.

Let's take a look at how often Dr. Internet is asked these existential questions in a single month:

• "Should I leave him?" 1600
• "What am I going to do?" 6,600
• "Why are we here?" 14,800
• "Who am I?"  ONE MILLION searches a month.

Only a 119 people a month ask the internet oracle to tell them how to stop yelling at their kids, so I guess I'm still not as normal as I'd hoped. 

It was in just such a moment of desperation that I was recently pondering the chaos of my life and wondering how to get my act together, get my house together--the noble thoughts of womanhood.  I resolved that I needed to get the kids back to helping out around the house after the pandemonium of the holidays.

So, I sat down to make a chore chart.  I was just about to ask Señor Internet for advice on the matter when something came back to me through the echoing, alzheimery corridors of my mind.  There was a site filled with all sorts of child slavery advice, complete with the chore charts I needed AND the cheerful fatalism I so enjoy.  In fact, it was written by someone I knew--in fact, someone I loved dearly, despised deeply and indulged greatly. 

Yes, it was the ghost of me past, who died a tragic death due to complications related to a stressful move, financial turmoil and becoming a working mother.  Now, as I prepare to resettle back into at-home motherhood, I'm in the amusing situation of having to turn to my old dead self to remember how to do things, like parent children.  That said, I'm actually more organized, responsible and tidy than she was, albeit much grumpier. 

Yet, as I read through the blatherings of this naïve woman, I realized that one, I miss her.  Two, I have a practical thing or two to learn from my old self, and three, I think the past two years have given me a little more insight into these things.  So, I decided to return and co-blog with my old, dead self.  Kind of like Natalie Cole. 

I'm hoping that in the process, I'll resurrect not just the blog, but some of the enthusiasm I once had and remind myself how hilarious raising children can be.  That way, maybe my future self, once she's also forgotten both how to parent and that she had a parenting blog, she'll stumble upon me, the long dead ghost of me present, and the three of us together will manage to hold on for more than one week the lessons of life. 

So, in the end, my very own forgotten piece of the internet solved some of my child rearing questions, and because my mind is a sieve and I can't remember squat, it's all fresh and new to me!

Which leads me to my next internet search, "Do I have alzheimers?"  Me and 91 other inquiring minds want to know.

Are you expecting?

I've had computer trouble, I apologize for disappearing. Plus, my propensity for amusement is in a lull right now. But hey, it's my house, so it's my rules. I hereby allow myself to be unamusing.

Let's talk about expectations. Here are some of mine:

• I expect that I'll have five minutes of peace on the computer to do bills while my children are in the same room.
• I expect that I'll complete a ridiculously-long to-do list each day.
• I expect that my (rather young) children will not act so immature.
• I expect that my worldly success is imminent.
• I expect that my diet success is imminent.
• I expect my husband will read my thoughts.
• I expect that I am simply on the bottom steps of a fabulous financial escalator (and not on one of the flat ones they have at the airport).
• I expect a day where nothing and no one will get in my way or make a mess or slow me down or undo my efforts.

What are you expecting?

A friend of mine recently explained her experience at a Buddhist temple, where the monk taught against any kind of hope, as it would always lead to disappointment.

In the zen spirit of being non-judgmental, may I say this is simply ridiculous.

Hope is essential to life. What I think she may have meant, in spirit, is to warn parishioners against the self-torture of expectation. Hope can motivate action, it keeps us moving forward, gives us the idea that unknown, maybe not understood, but valuable rewards in life can and will be found as we move along. We can trust that positive things will take place here and, for the lucky ones who have faith to go along with that hope, in the hereafter.

However, when I expect something, my expectations will be met, or not met. It is not my expectations that increase the likelihood of any specific outcome. Expecting things is just like placing bets. The cards will fall where they will, the marble will settle somewhere on the wheel, regardless of where I placed my bet. But, my fixation on one outcome determines whether I will jump in triumph or, the other 99.9% of the time, be disappointed with my experience.

We expect things of our day, of events, of plans, of our kids and husbands, of everyone around us, of ourselves. We also spend far more time lamenting the falling short from our expectations than we ever spend rejoicing in them being met.

At the same time, we are to hold high expectations for our kids. But I think this is a semantic issue, because setting a high standard of behavior for our kids is not the same as emotionally investing our pleasure or displeasure in their behavior because our expectations have been met or not. I would argue the first is appropriate, but not the latter.

I would also argue that aside from true grief and sorrow, almost all our negative feelings in life come from our expectations. I know this is true for me.

As a person of faith, I also wonder if constantly creating expectations isn't also a sign of weak faith and my weak trust in a Creator with a Plan. Instead of moving forward, working and having hope that the road ahead will give me something beneficial regardless of what it is and whether I understand it, I constantly interrogate my Maker, "Is this your plan? No? What about this? No, not that either?! Oh, NO! Is there a plan? Where is the plan? SHOW ME THE PLAN!"

Truly Zen folks argue against the analysis, via discussion, debate or even scripture, of this life experience. And I take issue with that, because all that has its place. But I wonder sometimes if my life has come to be completely circumscribed by rhetoric and analysis (and blogging), at the risk of not living a life at all, but instead, watching the highlights as a spectator via daily blogging or cell-phone recaps.

The Zen thing is about actively accepting and living in the present moment, putting aside the ego and self-consciousness and the constant judgment ("Is this person/experience living up to my expectations or not?). So, without being all orthodox zen and tossing out age-old wisdom, scripture and divine and earthly conversation/analysis, I see a need to add the actual act of living my own real life.

I feel like this actual living life part, and not just thinking, writing, wondering, worrying about living, has been a missing leg in the table of my life (which, to continue that metaphor, may account for my instability).

It's like I live my entire life approaching each day like a new, unopened box. First I decide what could be in the box, what should be in the box, and wonder what I want to have in the box, and, after all that, I look into the box and see what's in it. But, by that time, it's been spoiled anyway by all that expecting. It could have been a perfectly fabulous thing, but if it wasn't what it could, should, or I wanted it to have been, I won't see that.

What about going up to the box and seriously observing and appreciating what is in it before doing the "What's-in-the-box?" song and dance? Especially when that box is my life, my experiences, my time, my husband, and, most relevant here, my child?

I do want to teach and train my kids in the best path, but I also want to know them, to discover and observe them, to appreciate them. Not only them, but their stages and struggles and approaches to life. I want to respect them enough to listen to them and observe them rather than just direct and shape them. It is frankly a very big change from my current approach.

And I won't expect, but I will hope, that I will make this change.

The day I was forced to remove my children from the sofa-altar of the TV God

For the past three weeks our family has had something we never have heretofore had--static-free access to network and public television. This has been a wonderful discovery for me. Thanks to a magical thing called "PBS Kids" and our "we-just-moved-and-there's -only-7-more-weeks-of-school -so-why-bother" version of "home schooling" and a mild case of post-moving depression, I can now slothfully sleep until 9 a.m. And very often, I do.

If harassed loudly enough, I will put four granola bars and four apples in a large popcorn bowl and my three year old will bear it down to the parishioners so they may munch without losing a single second of quality educational programming. I lose only a few precious seconds of unconsciousness.

Then, my together, well-read alter-ego (who is now only given jurisdiction over me for about 15 minutes a day) had me reading this past week some academic religious material by a scholar who had attended rabbinical school before undertaking academic study of modern religions. He was explaining the Jewish law I always found rather odd (not being Jewish), that being the prohibition against creating any images of God's creations, as it leads inevitably to the worship of the image over the creation (idol worship).

He had me intrigued when he said, "Common to this sort of idol worship was an infatuation with the image of a thing rather than its reality . . . we could say that an obsession with unreality is at the heart of idolatry." I began to await his final blow when he said, "The graven and molten apparatuses that transmit these images we put up in our own houses as well as in houses set apart for that purpose. Upon these images we dote, preoccupied for hours at a time . . . we worship in the dark, heedless of one another. When a social need arises, we resent its intrusion. Our behavior towards one another is colored by what our images dictate."

Just as I was about to dispense with this line of un-American TV bashing as religious fanaticism, he pulls out the more powerful dogma of research science, particularly concerning in light of my children's new passtime:

"Recent studies, for example, amply document the abnormal effects of watching television. The images that our eyes see are stored permanently in our minds. There, they mingle with images of the real world . . . Watching television accustoms people to the sensational, the artificial, the novel, so that they begin to require a regular diet of these things to maintain their interest. . . Because their minds and hearts dull toward quiet, normal everyday happenings, reality appears drab and uninteresting."

Now, religion can be disregarded, and science can be ignored, but I have a problem with this one, because my own life could be a case study of this phenomenon. I used to tell myself that the hour-after-hour style of TV watching I did all during my childhood and adolescence apparently didn't hurt me all that much, what with my good grades and good jobs and passable intellectual functioning. Apparently, a constant daily after-school diet of M.A.S.H., Three's Company, Different Strokes and Benson was just fine for a 13-year-old after all.

But when I read this, that constant broken record of the song "Is that all there is?" that plays in my head every moment of every day, my perpetual dissatisfaction with everything real as opposed to imagined, and my chronic, two-decade ennui rose before me with a black, shiny, square face.

Sure, it could be I'm just an ungrateful baby naturally, with or without full months of my life having been spent bowing before the tube. But, I believed enough that there is something to this phenomenon in my life that the very next day I sent us back to our pre-decent antenna lifestyle and committed to, if not get out of bed earlier, make sure the books and games are unpacked and accessible.

We parents don't need to be told that TV is "the plug-in drug" because we use it exactly for that purpose. It stops the chaos, the fighting, the mess--it is instant quiet. It is the "only" way dinner can be made, bills can be paid, etc. But, if any inkling of that study is true, I cannot sentence my kids to the same blasse, non-plussed, constantly disappointed psyche that has plagued me my whole life.

So, to arm me against my next moment of weakness when my need to control my children brings me to the point I'm ready to set them on the sofa-altar and make them little, perpetually unamused idolaters, I'm going to read some highly recommended books on the subject. Feel free to join me.





Oh, and the book I was quoting here:
The Last Days: Types and Shadows from the Bible and the Book of Mormon

Beware the Mexican Food!

No, I'm kidding, I don't mean the #1 combo with the tasty enchilada and taco swimming in a lake of beans, that's just fine to eat.

...Well, maybe, if it's at a locally-owned business using local organic produce and tortillas, and grass-fed, hormone-free meat and dairy, and doesn't use MSG and ...

Shut up, brain, I'm eating!

Anyway, for your Thursday food rant, check out this great article sent to me by friend Michele. If you value your unborn grandchildren, you may want to stop buying Mexican produce so your children can still reproduce.

Op-Ed Contributor: Did Your Shopping List Kill a Songbird?

Scary pesticides banned in most developed countries, including even ours? Nope, not food.

A Lesson from the Henhouse

In six weeks, I'll be getting my first batch of chickens. In reading up on this project and choosing henhouse plans, I read an interesting fact. You need to have 4-5 square feet of space for each hen (vertical space counts also). You easily learn if the space is too small, because the chickens start pecking each other.

In fact, to help commercial hen farms deal with this phenomenon, rather than giving the hen the needed space, they simply chop off their beaks. My friends, please just pay the extra money for free-range meat and eat less of it. Cleaner conscience, cleaner meat, and it costs the same! Forgive me, I digress.

Anyway, I understood this pecking tendency perfectly. Our family just moved to a home that is double the size of our previous, somewhat cramped one. And "pecking at each other" would perfectly describe our former daily life. Now, we're all left scratching our heads over why we were fighting so much, and we're also seeing a lot less of each other. No coincidence, I'm sure.

Not all chicken breeds get mean when confined, some handle it better than others. Likewise, I have friends who live in tight corners who manage to have peace and harmony. They are apparently a nicer breed of people.

Not to say conflict has ceased entirely, quite the contrary, because now we are only fighting when we have a Real Reason (and wow, those are some impressive, high-quality fights). But the fact remains, with people and chickens, a little room goes a very long way.

For those who have limited space both indoors and outdoors, as we did very recently, we did find some things that helped. First, bunk beds, because they provide a designated space for the child that feels private and cozy. Second, IKEA play tents, for the same reason, and they are $10 and can fit in the corner of even a small room.

In the end, however, probably the best preventative for the pecking phenomenon despite your living circumstances comes early in life when you decide whom to breed with. Marry a nice breed: have nice kids.

(Love you anyway, my sweet, grumpilicious husband!)

Three Dirty Little Secrets

For today's That's Not Food, I share with you three things, some or all of which you may know, but forgive me, as my informal poll shows they are not common knowledge.

1. The food ingredient called "cellulose" is generally another word for sawdust. Often found in pre-grated cheeses (especially the parmesan), and sometimes listed as an "anti-caking agent" it helps keep your powdery foods fluffy and not chunky. Incidentally, it is also an easy way to put less cheese, and more wood, in your little green can, which means more $$$ for them.

Usually, freshly-grated deli cheeses, like those at Trader Joes, don't try to get away with this. And of course, you can always grate it yourself, it's yummier and takes 15 seconds or something if you can spare it. (I, for one, cannot.)

Cellulose is the fiber that makes up the cell walls of most plants, it is indigestible to humans but is good for the digestive tract. However, the plants generally used for commercial cellulose are not food plants, but plain old wood. Sorry, not food.

2. The new hot trend in cutting corners in the commercial food industry is inefficiency. I'm talking now of brown sugar. If you buy a bag of C&H brown sugar, the ingredients are listed: "Brown sugar." If you buy a bag of store-brand brown sugar, say, at Target, the ingredients listed will be: "Sugar, molasses." "Who cares?" You say. You should.

You may know that white sugar is simply brown sugar with the molasses removed. Molasses being all the vitamins, minerals (especially iron) and distinctive flavor found in natural cane juice. The process of making white sugar white requires a great deal of refinement involving several (not food) chemicals.

The twisted chain of agribusiness has now made it cheaper to add molasses back into white sugar rather than just leave the brown sugar alone. The texture and even taste is slightly different and inferior to the real stuff--go Pepsi Challenge it yourself. But the tasteless part is the fact that most of the benefits of brown sugar--a less refined, un-chemically processed food, are now moot. It's brown sugar made white and then made brown again.

White sugar deserves it's own post, new articles are saying that if it was proposed as a new food now, it wouldn't pass the FDA (and that's a low standard) because of it's direct contribution to diabetes. That is completely speculative and I don't believe it, but that doesn't keep me from perpetuating the information.

Natural substances mega-refined by unnatural chemicals to be made to look like natural substances: not food.

3. On the same topic as sugar, let's all be aware that the term "honey" in commercially-produced food generally means high-fructose corn syrup. This is becase honey is expensive, and high-fructose corn syrup flows in vast rivers in the midwest. Raw honey can help allergies, is a powerful anti-microbial, acts as a preservative and antiseptic on wounds, and acts as a fabulous cough syrup, among other things. High-fructose corn syrup is a super-mega refined derivative of corn that nature never intended humans to guzzle down by the barrel and brings us snowballing diabetes, obesity and organ damage. Just start checking your "Honey Whole Wheat Bread" is all I'm saying. Read enough labels, it's enough to get you to start grinding and baking. (And, as a sidenote, wheat starts losing it's nutritional value within days of being ground--how long has that bread been on the shelf?)

And don't get me started on the "honey sauce" packets the restaurant industry is trying to pass off these days. You can guess the main ingredient, and it's not honey.


Forgive my weekly angry rants--I love food, but am falling out of love with the commercial food industry. Darnit! Sawdust, processing chemicals, and mega-refined mutations of nature--NOT FOOD!

The Tuck In Panacea

There is very little within the spectrum of average parenting that can't be made up for with a high-quality tuck in.

The tuck in was an essential nightly ritual in my upbringing which, like my own children, I prolonged with a variety of elaborate efforts: the additional story, the drink, the extra hug and kiss, the need for more blankets, and of course, an onslaught of elaborate and irrelevant questions--all critical tools in the arsenal of extending that sweet moment of one-on-one parental attention.

Perhaps you will think it indicative of arrested development that this ritual continued as long as I lived in the house. But really it was just that I was an only child to a single parent--we both needed the nightly hugs. Still, I hope to use it to prolong the child-parent bedtime connection as long as my kids will allow it.

Now, at the end of an exhausting day where my parenting has been marginal to poor, it is tempting to forgo this procedure with a swift, "Everyone in BED!" and a token, speedy hug and "G'nite, love you." However, I am starting to see the wonderful redemption opportunity I am giving up when I do this. A few, focused moments at the bedside can leave me, and hopefully my child, ending the day feeling that some good-quality parenting is going on, and love is in the air to fuel sweet kid dreams. This is an illusion I am more than happy to weave.

In my house, perhaps one night in a week, the high-quality tuck in will require an apology for bad behavior on my part. I do try to apologize at the time when I make mistakes with my kids, but there really isn't an ending moment to my grumpy-mom performance that would make an apology anything but a ridiculous comma in the middle of it. Enter the tuck in, where we calm down with routines and prayer and inside jokes and rituals, and then, as I kneel quietly at the bedside, I can sincerely feel (and not just say) that I'm sorry, and they are in a much better position to forgive.

The tuck in has evolved differently with each of my four kids. With my oldest, I've found the
bunk bed is not helpful to this routine. We end up on my bed after I've said goodnight to all the others, chatting while my other little guy falls asleep on the lower bunk. He'll still let me sing to him and pet his hair.

I sincerely feel this daily touchstone of chatting can be the key to holding onto him through both tweendom and teendom. In fact, my Aunt Dede (three daughters) and Uncle John (three boys, three girls), each attested to the fact that this one thing was why they ended up with kids they stayed close to, and who all ended up on the right track in life.

My oldest daughter, now six, will let me fawn on her and dote and croon and sing all night if I wanted to. There must be butterfly kisses, eskimo kisses, endless kisses and cuddles. She was born with an insatiable craving for this kind of encompassing affection, and I'm sad to say she gets just about none of it most days outside of the tuck in. Without this nightly routine, one of her deepest, most urgent emotional needs would be left unmet.

My three-year old goes through the nightly routine of resisting the tuck in at first, because that means bed, "No! NO song! No mommy sing. Go away." But then he succumbs with all sorts of cuddly goodness. Of course there is the water getting and the request for a second dinner to be served in bed, which is rarely indulged, unless I served something truly gross for dinner which warranted his rejection. Then, he refuses a song as often as he begs for one. His favorite song for the past six months is "Pumpkin in the Straw" (sung to "Turkey in the Straw") which I made up last Halloween because he requested a pumpkin song. I didn't know I'd be singing it until he went to college.

Our routine often ends with a kiss, hug, and squeeze, in that order. Tonight I hugged him and, mildly distracted, went to leave. It was the highlight of my day to hear him say, "Mommy! A Fweeze! I need a fweeze!" No matter how many times I've been roped into coming back after trying to leave, who could deny that?

I'm just starting a routine with my little 21 month old, who has been babied far to long and put down asleep. Although it's just a song and kiss, she knows it means I love her and she's going to bed, like it or not. It's simple, but it's a basic foundation for all those late night chats I look forward to when she comes home from a date in 15 years.

I then can emerge from the kids' room like I would a confessional, feeling free of guilt and ready to try harder. Stephen Covey would say I've brought my children's emotional bank accounts current, especially on those days I've become severly overdrawn. And for the good days, I've got a little padding, in case grumpy mommy escapes again.

The simple bedtime tuck in--it covers a multitude of parental sins.

Hiatus

MamaMelodrama is having real drama, namely, an out-of-state move, so I'll be back on Tuesday, March 25th. Please come back to visit, I'm sure I'll have plenty of wisdom (gained the hard way) to tell you all about.

Keep delegating!

Valerie

Note to Self: Give the Big Picture

I cause myself a lot of grief by assuming children understand the "big picture" when I ask for a chore to be done.

Case in point, today I say, "Ben, please sweep up the dining room." At the time I asked, in addition to dirt, there were lunch scraps, silverware, crayons, paper and some play-dough toys under the table. When he was done, under the table were now just a few little scraps of lunch and paper, one cookie cutter--AND the broom, the dustpan, his hat, and the tape gun, which he was holding when asked to sweep. He was no where to be found.

To be honest, yes, there is some serious ADHD involved, if you believe in that type of thing. But once again, it was another daily crossroads where I have to decide--is this funny or infuriating?

My lesson for today (once again) is to remember to give the big picture in assigning work. I need to explain what it needs to look like in the end, as well as put a little follow-up in there: "Ben, I need the floor to have absolutely nothing on it when you are done with it, let's look at it together when you are done."

I need to explain the end, not just the means. Theoretically it will help him feel less like an exploited worker to understand the big picture, all the overpaid corporate gurus say so. Until I learn this, you can know one thing when at my house--whatever you're looking for, it's under the table.

Cheap Laughs

I got this from a friend today, and it fits perfectly with my "I'm moving and I can't blog right now" theme, while still getting that laugh I so desperately want to give you, so enjoy:

I'm particularly glad I came across the directions on clearing the nose, teething, and checking baby's diaper, as these things have historically sometimes been apparently done the incorrect way in our home.

Source:

Your Yuk Yuk for today

You can expect short and sweet posts the next two weeks, as "the move" is upon us. Yet, I must share with you a special moment I had with my baby daddy this past weekend.

I'm a Tina Fey fan, and although the trailer to her new movie really doesn't do her justice, a sweet moment in the trailer made both me and the cute guy I came with laugh so suddenly, so loudly, and so apparently without the comraderie of the others in the audience (who, it seems, don't have or remember having small children)--that we were almost, but not really, embarrassed.

It's a moment that, to non-parents, is funny because it seems so ridiculous, but to parents, is hilarious because it likely has actually taken place in recent memory.

Without further ado, I offer you this rather mediocre trailer as a puzzle: see if you can't find that special moment that reminds you of your life if you have a toddler.

Spoiler: You can't find it?! C'mon! It's at 1:23--are you serious. It's really just me that lives like this?

A Book of Problems, a Book of Solutions

Today's "That's Not Food" Thursday is the first part of a review of two books which, for me, go together as problem and solution.

When it comes to reading, like anything else I undertake, the book becomes my exclusive pastime. Like sweet snacks in a moody moment, books are consumed, rather than savored. This greediness is partly due to the knowledge that if I approach it casually it will never happen, and partly just my all-or-nothing lifestyle, for which I blame my genes and immaturity.

At the New Year, I committed to read more, and with such fits and starts have finished three books, mainly at the expense of my sleep, but a bit from my children. Both books were recommended by my friend Sharla, the second offered as a follow-up to the the first book she recommended at a whisper on the playground a while back.

As for that first book, which I'll call the Skinny Book in attempt to be tasteful, it wraps up in tidy form the startling, quietly unfolding catastrophe resulting from the industrialization of American food. It is concise, well-documented treatise and call to arms. It made me laugh hard, and made me sick to my stomach.

Although their answer to the problem is faulty, I have never seen a more basic statement of what is wrong with our food chain. After reading it, I banned my kids from eating meat at school (yes, it is that bad) and only weeks later all beef used in area school districts was recalled due to discovery of the conditions (similar to those outlined in this book) at a local meat packing plant. Very little mention was made with the recall that these conditions were going on for years, but the public discovery made recall pressing.

The Skinny book pretends to be a diet book, which it is of a sort, but is mainly packaged as such to sell more books and spread the word. For the same purpose, this essential data for food eaters is slathered in language not appropriate for mixed company that would gravely offend most of the people I know, who are all more righteous than me.

So, yes, the book is a big Rated R for language, which is unfortunate, because I would have given copies away to everyone I knew otherwise. As it is, I can't even put the title in my blog at the risk of offending friends. Very unfortunate.

In sum, it's rife with high quality research and low-quality language. There is actually a statement in the end of the book that cops to the fact that they adopted the trash-talk style because they wanted to get this information about the food chain out there and knew it was a surefire way to get published and sell books.

But as I mentioned, it's solutions are misled, based on the false premise that the only way to address this frightening situation is to eat organic but processed vegan junk food purchased at premium prices from Whole Foods. The authors simply don't believe clean dairy products or sanitary, un-tortured meat exist. In the industrial food chain, that is entirely true, but in an increasing way on the local level, options are beginning to abound.

Enter Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, a hope-filled, educational answer to the first book. It is part memoir, part novel and part how-to, interspersed with something from the opinion column, the politics page and yummy, simple recipes. I cried at the end, and although I don't think emotionally stable people will, I'm confident it will change your life in a positive way. I read a borrowed library copy and am anxious to get my own.

Don't wait for my review and blathering on about it next Thursday; buy it, borrow it, get it, do it now.

I'll write more about this book (probably a lot more) in my next Thursday post, but I want to give a qualified recommendation on the cussing book for pure content for those who rationalize watching R-rated movies because they felt "the story was so good, the language didn't matter." I've never much felt that way about movies, but I definitely feel that way about this book. For those who just can't look past the language, and I totally respect that, just start with the advanced version: The Omnivore's Dilemma.

If you are super offended that I even put this out there, love me still anyway.

PS. While on the subject of food rants (my Thursday indulgence), I posted a comment to my own MSG article with my response to a recent article in the NY Times. I'm not recommending you read my response unless you actually read that NY Times article, in which case I ask that you please allow me to rant endlessly on why the NY Times article is complete drivel. [Don't ask why I get so upset about these things, I really don't know. It is not entertaining and will probably put you in mind of Hillary-esque yelling on my part.]

Solution of the Day: No More Toys!

We are in the process of packing for a long-distance move. Each day, I find it difficult to focus on packing because before I can pack, I need to clean up. The cleaning ends up taking most of my packing time, just as it took up most of my time before moving was even on the radar.

The kids toys and books are the culprit, so I decided that, rather than generously wait until the last minute to pack up the kid's things so they won't be without them but for a few spartan days, I'd do them first.

While this may seem cruel to you (as we won't be unpacking these items for two weeks) I argue that this will make them more grateful for all their belongings in the end. I may even be able to better distinguish which items really are unnecessary to ever unpack at all. Today I got all books and toys boxed and sealed and placed in an impenetrable stack in the children's closets, sealed with a stern mandate that the closet is off-limits.

I won't be the first to complain that as I packed, the kids were frantically unpacking and playing with everything they had completely ignored since we moved in here. This is probably a testament to my poor organization, as kids can't play with toys they can't find or see or gather all the parts to.

Seeing their delight in all the "discovered" toys really was a motivator to start toy rotation after we move. I may even take a page from a friend and play librarian with the books to prevent them from being damaged and spreading all over the house, as has been our general habit up until now.

My husband, a pathological neatnik daily driven insane by my pathological disorder, walked into my daughters' empty room and I saw him visibly become more relaxed. "Ah, this is wonderful," he said. And it was, and I seriously never want to unpack the books or toys again.

Someone from a family of 10 kids once told me that their mom kept the house clean by having absolutely nothing in the house. Minimalist furniture, no wall hangings--nothing. I guess she assumed you could get enough entertainment from the 9 other kids in the house that you didn't need piles of stuff.

I'm an all-or-nothing kind of girl. This might just be the only hope for me--keep all belongings in a closet full of sealed boxes.

Remedial Dinner Planning

I know I might be alone here, but I love grocery shopping. It may be about my unhealthy love of food, it may be that I starved to death in a past life, who can say? But it is not unequivocal--I don't like plain old supermarket shopping--but I can walk the aisles of a Trader Joes for a curiously long time.

Sometimes, on bad days, I sneak out of the house just after the kids go down and calm myself down by hanging out at Trader Joes. You get a snack at the kitchen, you feel like any world that has this many chocolate choices must be a civilized place.

Maybe this is why I fail to plan meals, so I can go to Trader Joes 3-4 times a week. It helps me keep the illusion that I only spend $40 a week on groceries, because I tell myself that I go weekly.

So, I love shopping, but I don't like shopping with four young children. I don't like the glares and the stares I get from others, and the ones I am then required to give to my kids as they beg and grab. Since they were very little, the rule has been "No asking and no grabbing." But apparently rules are made to be broken.

It is indeed possible to just go to the store once a week. When you cook a lot from scratch and have a good bulk food situation with your kitchen staples, you can just go get your produce, dairy and meat, and it's no big deal (or so I've heard).

I sat down today and made a 4-week menu plan and shopping list, which I have done before, but today I did it on paper instead of on an elaborate Excel spreadsheet, and it took much less time. And, although I can't find it now and the baby might have carted it away somewhere, I am sure I'll find it tomorrow and it will change my life.

I went to Trader Joes today and spent $118 for my family of 6. I really avoid the supermarket whenever possible, and they have much less expensive natural choices than Whole Foods. My menu is now very basic, kid focused and unfancy, because I am so sick of hearing complaints--they have beat me down and I've given in.

Every Monday is homemade top-your-own pizza before family night, Tuesdays are Mexican (tacos, enchiladas, burritos, tortilla soup, macho nachos), Wednesdays are Rice or potato-based (jambalaya, chix rice casserole, oven chix and rice, potato soup etc.) Thursdays are pasta (homemade mac'n'cheese, red sauce, lasagne, alfredo), Fridays are box mac'n'cheese (for them at least, 'cause that's date night), Saturdays are leftovers or breakfast for dinner, Sundays are the fancy but low-effort stuff: pot roast, roasted chicken, chix pot pie, stew and biscuits.

I'm not really a big meat eater, my husband doesn't think he's eating unless there is meat involved--just snacking. At least one child fervently hates whatever will be served on a given night. So I built some flexibility into the menu items.

As you may have noticed from my Thursday posts, I have strong feelings about processed food. I like to cook my own food from scratch (which takes much less time than you think). But most of the time, these strong feelings about food do not lend themselves to actually thinking ahead and planning meals or thinking about starting dinner before we should actually be sitting down to eat it.

To lower the chaos level in my life, I finally planned and did it all on one day. As a result, this week I plan to save myself 3 hours of unnecessary daytime shopping. I'm hoping to spend these three hours actually being with my kids and working on my "patient mother" act. Maybe then there will be less freaking out and I won't be forced to use that time back at Trader Joes after hours, walking the chocolate aisles.

Hurry up and be patient!

My primary method of teaching my children patience is by impatiently demanding it. I combine this strategy with constantly modeling exactly what patience isn't (so they can tell the difference, you see). In addition to my quick-to-anger parenting, they also overhear me whining to my friends about life's circumstances not keeping pace with my expectations, and always extolling the benefits of tomorrow over the realities of today. Yet of course, I demand patience from them constantly, when I'm on the phone, when I'm handing out snacks, basically whenever they want anything.

My only redeeming feature in this area is that I'm a very patient driver. Well, not really, as I'm the perfect synergy of Captain Rush-Rush and Ms. Lane Expert, but I do tend to give other drivers the benefit of the doubt and am not a fist shaker. (In part because I know there is no inconvenience I can be caused that I haven't egregiously caused another driver myself, probably very recently.) I just smile and wave forgivingly, hoping it will bring me good karma so no one pulls out a gun and road rages the next time I make the same mistake.

Still, it is safe to say that impatience permeates our home on every level, from the top down. Today, because patience was yesterday a lively discussion topic at church, a dear friend sent me a link to a highly recommended speech on patience by Gandhi's grandson--which I couldn't finish because I was too impatient with how slowly he talked! (Don't worry Jen, I'll finish it tonight.) I'm so doomed.

Another clear indicator of my poor example is the fact that my two older children have already settled on having between 0-1 children themselves ("because kids are annoying"). Yikes! I'm not just losing my self-control, I'm losing my grandchildren!

Jane Nielsen in Positive Discipline states that we cannot make our children act better by making them feel worse. (This statement makes me feel bad, does that mean I won't act better either?) Yet, this has been my primary strategy for teaching my children, despite constant evidence to its ineffectiveness. Plus, I've only recently woken up to the fact that so much of my parenting behavior is completely selfish--I'm not trying to teach principles and form good habits so much as make the day go my way.

Patience is a form of acceptance, both of who we are right now, who are kids are right now, and the state of the world right now. It is not complacency, it's not resigned bitterness. Patience is trust and hope that things will work out with time and love rather than cajoling, guilt and manipulation. Sure it's hard for me to replace reactionary words with a deep breath, but at the same time, when I try on a little patience, it is so much more comfortable than the frustration and anxiety--I think, "Why don't I try this more often?"

In the lesson yesterday, a quote said, " Acceptance is taking our children for what they are right now, without comparing them to others or wishing they didn’t have their particular flaws. Acceptance is letting go of unrealistic or unfair expectations. It is understanding the seasons of our children’s lives."

Just today, as I actually made a conscious effort to accept my kids for who they are right now and show patience, I literally felt a knot in my chest unravel a bit. I had to talk myself through it a little, like I was role-playing, "Look, here I am being a patient mother." Sure, it felt awkward, but a little less like I might seriously have a heart attack.

Has a patient mother ever turned out low-quality children because they mistook her patience for consent of their mistakes? Highly unlikely.

But, has a patient mother ever taught her children patience by example, so they can be more able to diligently work through life's difficulties, including their own weaknesses? Without a doubt, probably thousands of them.

So, my assignment for tomorrow--less of the yap yap and more of the deep breathing.

PS: BTW: The computer goal for today was successful--it totally makes a difference!

MSG is a jealous lover

Welcome to "That's Not Food Thursday." I'll try to keep it shorter this time.

You know MSG loves you, and you love it. It makes you think everything it is in is SO yummy, you just have to have more.



Think about how you feel about Cheetos, or BBQ potato chips, or, in a very weak moment, maybe even KFC. You can't eat just one for a reason. You can put this stuff on cardboard and all of a sudden you think, "Man, I LOVE cardboard--how come I never noticed this?"





See, even something that tastes crappy becomes above-average with MSG:


I once was righteously eating a pre-packaged veggie-tray, dipping happily in my white little bucket of sin it came with. Just one bite, and I thought, "WOW, this is good ranch! Seriously! I will eat even the broccoli in this if the ranch is this good . . . I think I'll lick the cup when I'm done . . .Who would of thought ranch dressing would have . . . ? Wait a minute . . . " (I flip over the little happy bucket suspiciously) Ah, there it is, the jealous lover, named like a gangsta--MaSta G.

It was just plain lame ranch, just with some MSG in it, messing with my mind.

That really is what it does, too. He's big on the mind games. That's why McDonalds can sell you wads of kind-of-beef under kind-of-cheese with shellacked "veggies" and you'll go back again and again. And they know you will, because with MSG they don't have to even try (and they don't). So we go back because we love our MSG as much as he loves us (and our neurotransmitters), and he makes sure we do.


You might already think it's bad because it makes a food high in sodium and bad carbs, which is a part of the story. Here's the rest of the low-down if you and/or your kids are feelin' the love for the MSG:

1. MSG is in almost every processed savory food.
2. MSG is not always on the label as Monosodium Glutamate (like it is shamelessly advertised on your Doritos). MSG is surprisingly big business, too, so, due to the bad press of MSG, food processors have asked and received from our government permission to call it lots of things, the most popular one these days is "natural flavors." This can also be other things, but if it is a salty (not sweet) food, it's safe to assume it's MSG or a like-minded cousin (Trust no one!)
3. MSG is highly addictive. This is not a secret to the manufacturers who use it. Don't kid yourself, it is why they use it (conspiring men, if you know what I mean)
4. MSG causes and predisposes its lovers to obesity. The younger a person is exposed, the more prone they are to obesity in later life. Type "MSG" and "Obesity" into the public medical study database and you will come up with over 120 studies explaining this link.
5. A large percentage of people are allergic or react negatively to MSG. I have a very down-to-earth friend (not a crazy hippie, although I'm working on her) who has severe migraines when she eats it--she's like a divining rod for unlabeled MSG.
6. Last but not least, MSG has been shown to cause brain lesions and neuro-endocrine disorders.

I'm just giving you the short version here, but I do recommend you read this two-page article for the full education. The website is not perfect, it has a little of the "our government hates us" tone, but hey, they kind of do, and the article is one of the more well-documented and thorough on this subject. Read it--you know, for the kids.

The TV has been telling us for years that it is too time consuming and hard to make our own food, we are too busy, so we should allow them, the advertisers, take care of it for us. It's a lie. And now our nation is fatter and sicker than ever (I know I am). I'm learning it takes more planning, but not necessarily time.

Here is an article on a quick way to start: Make Meals in 30 Minutes or Less

My kids get enough mind games from me, they don't need to get them from their food. Plus, I know I already gave my kids the hefty gene, I am not about to throw their odds off even further with more MSG now I know the whole story.

I'm breaking up with MaSta G.

Graduate-Level Parenting

I've decided that I will truly have graduated as a parent when I:

1. Spend as much time actually parenting my kids (and enjoying it) as I currently spend wondering, worrying and writing about it.
2. Consistently get out of bed early enough to get myself together mentally, spiritually and physically before the kids wake up.

No more would I be rudely awakened by someone screaming in anger or pain while someone else cackles and giggles wickedly. No more would I angrily come downstairs half-dressed and blind to squint and yell the same lecture at indistinguishable blobs I assume to be my jammied children who are rolling on a floor covered in Cheerios not watching the screaming television.

Instead, they would come down to a bowl of warm oatmeal and a happy mom with inner peace who took the time to exercise, pray and shower, and even dress herself. Armed with the grace of God, faith hope and charity, and the steel zen fortitude needed to face another day, I will literally beat them to the punch.

Imagine having the first thing I think about my sweet children each day being about feeding and nurturing and loving --not just the instant fury upon waking that someone has woken everyone up at this unholy hour and are about to wake the --oh, and just woke the baby. Did I mention we're talking about somewhere between 5:45 and 6:15 a.m. here? It's not like I'm lazing about, mad that they're up at 7 or something.

Getting up before the kids is the pinnacle I aspire to, even though it means 5 a.m. I know of mythical mothers who do it, and even some among my friends. They are evidence that it is possible.

It's just more of that self-mastery mountain that I've elected to mope at the bottom of for years rather than start climbing. And on that topic, my week of banning daytime computer use apparently starts tomorrow.

The Devil's in the Emails

Unlike children, we adults have the privilege of setting and enforcing our own household rules for ourselves. We can write our own chore list, and we can do it or not. As I'm still in need of strict and structured discipline, I fabricate methods to accomplish my own goals, from the basic (keeping myself from getting on file at Child Protective Services for sanitation reasons) to the more ambitious (unequivocal self-mastery).

Some tactics discussed on this site, like the habits of the mean broom, dinner's not over until the kitchen is clean, and the self-propelling Sunday chore chart meetings, I'm finding are really working.

After a vacation, the flu, and some family excitement, I looked around and realized the house was a mess. I remembered that I read on a website somewhere that kids should do chores, and then I remembered it was my website, and I went to find out what I said. (I have a short-term memory problem that is amusing and tragic.) I reinstituted the patterns swiftly and surprisingly painlessly--the kids complained less than I remembered them doing before all the upheaval. Things are well on their way back to tamed chaos.

But my chores weren't getting done. And I have no respect for the authority figure (me) and am full of sass when confronted with jobs. You can guess the culprit (besides sheer laziness)--it's the dumb computer. It has become clear that my lack of discipline regarding when and how long I use the computer is the main obstacle between me and achieving all my hopes and dreams in life.

This is new to no one. There are endless sites helplessly bemoaning the ignoring of children and household chores to email, blog, read and shop. If you have a question, for example, about Neustria, because you have some ancestor there in the 9th century and you need to know right now where it was and why it had that weird name and why it eventually was named France instead, you can drop everything and find out. Now. That is the coolest thing ever.

The computer dings and I run over to it like a salivating dog--Will it be a funny, irreverent forwarded email (or more likely a not-funny or sentimental one, or one that assumes my political leanings are just about the opposite of what they really are)? Maybe it will be a coupon from Enterprise car rental? Is it time for my daily love letter from Barack who always ends his sweet notes with trying to bum my money like a bad boyfriend?

You know the drill. Then there's some link in there that's interesting which reminds you of that other thing you've been meaning to look at and then you find yourself reading about a long lost medieval country on Wikipedia.

So it's time to lay down the law and make some guidelines.

If I'm honest with myself, I need to make sure my work is done before getting on the computer, and although I'd like that to mean just my chores, I've also tried to put parenting on my list of things to do. I have too many kids to have real down time during the day. So that means no computer until all kids are asleep, which also happens to be spouse time. Still, I'm going to make and follow this rule for one week, no computer before the kids are in bed, and I'll let you know how it goes.

My hypothesis is that my motivation to hang out with my beau will quickly decide for me how important all those emails are, and perhaps benefit you with less long-winded posts, too. I end with a favorite quote (although I always find it heart-pricking) written by John Wesley's mother. She said:

"Take this rule: whatever weakens your reason, impairs the tenderness of your conscience, obscures your sense of God or takes off your relish of spiritual things; in short, whatever increases the strength and authority of your body over your mind, that thing is sin to you, however innocent it may be in itself."
-- Susanna Wesley (Letter, June 8, 1725)

I consider my reason officially weakened, so it's off with the daytime email. Wish me luck!

Rose-colored retrospect?

I have four grandmothers (including in-laws). With one exception, they are all scrubbing that great floor in the sky.

They were all great housekeepers. They provided three (often warm) meals a day to their families, and feeding often included gardening and canning. There was bread baking involved. Laundry was a much more serious undertaking, a ridiculous amount of ironing took place. They all did church work and routinely produced gorgeous handicrafts, generally in the form of afghans.

Oppressed, you say? No. Actually, with one blatant exception, they weren't oppressed in the least. They didn't work outside the home, had purse money, were fashion-conscious to varying degrees, and each of them had hobbies and interests. More than one wielded subtle but solid primary control of the house.

Oh, and incidentally, they all were mothers. Mothers who, on the whole, raised decent kids, although they attended to them very little by today's standards.

They lived in a time when it was clear what made a homemaker, wife and mother a success, and those were all the same things. While it's true the vast majority of their identity and purpose was culturally outlined for them, that core curriculum was supplemented with a variety of electives to enjoy and excel in--just not so much in the workplace, unless the boys were at war. However stifling it may seem to some, with post-feminism ennui I see at least they had clarity.

However you feel about the universal "freeing" of women from homemaking, you've got to admit there is something paralyzing about too many choices, and with that freedom comes the entitled mantra of "I'm liberated, I shouldn't have to do this" whenever we're faced with a distateful domestic task. For me, it creates the constant distraction of "Why isn't someone else doing this?" Which makes just doing the dishes everyday an affront.

The luxury of choice is spoiled by the fact that cooking, cleaning and generally caring for the homebase (if not the home) still needs to happen whether the 70s happened or not.

And nevermind that the "someone else" would simply be another woman who hasn't the luxury of divorcing herself from the basic needs of food and sanitary shelter. Everyone--wealthy, liberated or otherwise--depends on these items yet we measure our success by how little we are required to think about them.

I rationalize that the grandmas' times required less vigilance as a parent; their "be home before dinner" parenting style is completely unthinkable in many areas of the country now. But at the same time, I wonder if the unstructured breathing of fresh air, combined with examples of hard work both in and out of the home and steady routines of sacrifice for the family's well being--weren't a more efficient form of parenting in itself.

I say "efficient" because it seems housekeeping and yardkeeping weren't at odds with parenting, but an essential part of it. And maybe we've replaced that two-for-one system with an exhausting, endless and expensive curriculum of after-school programs. And in the end, maybe the kids aren't really raised as well and now the dishes aren't done either.

I'm now in the rare and unexpected position of living in a way and a place that will allow me to experiment on this hypothesis, as I'm moving out of the city and going "back to the land" as they say. If my kids end up in jail, we'll all know this was indeed rose-colored retrospect. But if my primary goal of happy, healthy and helpful kids is more easily met in this old-fashioned way, hindsight really is 20/20, and the Grandmas really did have it right.

PS, I recently enjoyed a quick, funny, twisting and surprisingly heart-tugging read. Related to this post, it's about the fall-out of feminism and the reincarnated caricature of the bride, mother and housewife (and it's uncoincidental alignment with the rise of Martha). Read a book!

If Music Be the Food of Love

For someone who loves music, I just don't use it enough. It gives me everything I need to be a happy mom. It makes my brain happy. It gives my house a good vibe that sets a tone for things and people. It reminds me of who I am, or was, or who I thought I was or imagine I am--any and all of those things.

It shows my kids I have interests and identity outside of them without making them feel marginalized or encroaching on their time. Plus, my kids are at an age where my ridiculous dancing and dramatic singing will amuse and delight them rather than horrify them, as will be the case all too soon.

It's because I don't have an iPod. I have oodles of music shoved in cases in shelves that have been turned around to prevent sticky hands from spewing them all over my house and scratching them up. My home decor synergizes nicely with that sweet cardboard look of the back of Ikea CD racks. My own music has it's back turned on me.

I'm resolving to get out the music and start humiliating myself in song and interpretive dance on a daily basis. My husband being the super rocknroll geek that he is (with a dedicated hard drive with 40,000+ songs and counting) has been doing this for years. In fact, I've learned that, to speak his Love Language, I must play three rounds of Guitar Hero with him every night. I like it, although I had to sanitize it a bit when the kids were watching by choosing a character who is actually wearing clothes and explaining that the rocker guys are actually saying "I love you" in sign language whist head banging, probably angering some pagan god somewhere.

Anyway, although my library is way less metal, I can vary the kids' exposure with my ferocious opera obsession and an endless supply of new wave hits and Lillith Faire fodder circa 1990 (read: women in short hair playing acoustic guitars). Thanks to my husband's music arsenal I can supplement this dated mix with some of the less-murderous Nick Cave, the less-morose Red House Painters, and the less-graphic PJ Harvey, although that probably limits me to five songs between the three.

I'm convinced that laying down the desired soundtrack on my life will have the desired effect on the overall tone of my daily existence. I'll let you know how it goes. This project will be much more successful if my birthday tomorrow pans out as it should (rhymes with "Hi Maude!")

Oops! I hear "Rock You Like a Hurricane,"--it must be time for that nightly wifely duty, that sacred moment between man and woman in the privacy of their own home when the kids have gone to bed...

the Wii!!